


A Sun Will Always Sing

by lixabiz



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Fluff, High School, Mentions of Cancer, Romance, Tutor/Student, character illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-22 18:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2517506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lixabiz/pseuds/lixabiz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I could help Rose Tyler with her homework."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I tried my best to research the British school system but I’m afraid there are still inaccuracies. Wikipedia lists Rose’s birthday as April 7th, but I changed it to falling sometime in the summer, after Father’s day. Italicized quotes, in order of appearance, are from Shakespeare (Sonnet 30) and Albert Einstein.

  
"You’re failing."  
  
It’s the same old refrain, once again. Rose kicks her foot out beneath the desk and her toe makes contact with the old steel frame. There’s a dull thud that sounds tinny in the stuffy office. It’s a tiny room, bare walls and rusted file cabinets and a loud clock behind her teacher’s frizzy head. Tick, tick, tick.  
  
"Yeah," she replies after a while, when it becomes obvious she’s supposed to say something. Rose shrugs. She wishes now that she’d kept her wad of chewing gum to have something to do with her mouth, but the secretary in the office is so mean-looking she decided not to risk it.  
  
The teacher sighs. “Do you understand what that means, Rose? Do you know what will happen if you continue to fail?”  
  
 _I’ll go get a job in the shops an’ quit wastin’ time here_ , she thinks. _Jimmy works at the shops, he can get me a job._  
  
”Write down your home phone number, please. The last number we have on record isn’t connected. I’d like to have a chat with your parent or guardian on the matter.”  
  
She’s not sure why McQuillen cares. Rose isn’t a good student, she doesn’t stand out. She’s tried, hard, not to. Mum’s always going on about how it’s better to fit in, especially for women like them - women without husbands or fathers, she means.  
  
She gives McQuillen their current phone number and silently vows to call Shareen or Mickey tonight and tie up the line til dawn if she has to.  
  
It doesn’t work. McQuillen calls the next day, in the morning, just after Rose wakes up. Mum’s still in her dressing gown, and Rose knows someone else is in their flat because her bedroom door is closed and locked. Jackie’s there behind her as soon as she picks up and McQuillen hears her say ‘Who’s that?’ even through the cruddy line, so Rose can’t hang up like she wants to.  
  
"It’s my Form teacher," Rose says, carefully neutral.  
  
Mum takes the phone, her face just as blank.  
  
She can hear McQuillen saying something long-winded and emphatic, and at one point, Jackie repeats the word ‘free’ back into the receiver, her face stormy. But it doesn’t last long, especially after more and more chatter from the woman on the other side of the line. Eventually Jackie is nodding and saying ‘yes, of course, thank you, please sign her up, you’ve been very kind-“  
  
Jackie hangs up after more thanks and she turns to Rose and says, “You’re to come home every tuesday straight from school, not a second late, do you hear?”  
  
"Why?" Rose demands, upset by this curtailment of her freedom. She’s already got a curfew on weeknights when all the other kids on the estate stay out as late as they want. This is just another rule that’s going to turn Jimmy off her.  
  
"Tutoring sessions," says her mum.  
  
"We don’t have the money for that!"  
  
"It’s a free program, the Uni’s doing it for at-risk youth." The words sound strange, coming out of her mum’s mouth. They don’t sound like her mum’s words, they sound like a recording, a brochure. "We can afford free."  
  
"I’m not at-risk!"  
  
The look on Jackie’s face is so sad, right then. Rose has never seen that exact expression before, not even when she asks about Dad. It’s a look that she doesn’t know yet, but she’ll recognize, someday. It’s a look of defeat. Jackie recovers quickly, and shakes her head. Her voice goes no-nonsense as she puts the kettle on.  
  
"Just be home on time."  
  
*  
  
The tutor doesn’t show. Rose is triumphant and Jackie resigned.  
  
McQuillen calls the next day to apologize and tells them that the student assigned to Rose had a family emergency, but they’ve found a replacement, someone willing to step in and help Rose. Jackie says it’s no big deal, and that they don’t have to go out of their way, but McQuillen is adamant about rescheduling.  
  
And that’s how Rose meets the Doctor.  
  
His name is John Smith, but Rose never calls him that. The first time she sees him is when she opens the front door and he’s standing there on the doorstep in a blue suit. He’s skinny, really skinny, and tall, and he’s got crazy messy hair. He’s older than she is, a grown up really, but he doesn’t look like one. He’s wearing a t-shirt that says ‘Trust Me I’m A Doctor’ under his suit jacket, and there’s a pink stain on the collar that looks like it might be jam.  
  
She looks from the shirt to his face. “Are you?”  
  
"Am I what?"  
  
"A doctor. You don’t look old enough."  
  
"I will be soon enough," he says grandly. "Almost there. Just a few more years."  
  
"That’s false advertising," says Rose.  
  
"Ouch. Give a man a break, will you! I’m standing on your doorstep! Aren’t you going to invite me in?"  
  
With a reluctant nod Rose steps aside, opens the door wider, and allows him to enter.  
  
"Mistake number one," he says, "You just let a total stranger into your home, without even asking who I am. What if I wasn’t your tutor? What if I was a criminal or a murderer or a rapist?"  
  
"MUM! THE TUTOR SAYS HE’S A CRIMINAL MURDERER AND RAPIST!"  
  
"Right. Off to a grand start," he says, and puts on a bright, ear-to-ear smile on his face to greet Jackie, who has come running with a plastic spoon in one hand and a strainer in the other. "Hello there! My name’s John Smith, lovely to meet you! I’m Rose’s new tutor. May I come in?"  
  
*  
  
Tuesday rolls around again, much to Rose’s dismay. Her only hope lies in the fact that she was so terribly rude to the tutor last week there’s a chance he might not show up again.  
  
The doorbell rings.  
  
Like clockwork the Doctor - Rose refuses to call him Mr. Smith (he is _not_ her teacher) or John (he is _definitely not_ her friend) - shows up every tuesday at 4pm on the dot. He’s aggravatingly cheerful each time, overly enthusiastic about homework, and impervious to sarcasm and outright hostility. He seems to find Rose funny, which annoys her even more.  
  
Jimmy quits school on the third week, and Rose hears he’s taken up with a girl he met at Asda. She is unapologetically awful to the Doctor that Tuesday, but he takes no notice.  
  
Instead, he takes the xeroxed copy of Shakespeare’s sonnet from her shaky hands and begins to read, aloud: _"When to the sessions of sweet silent thought/ I summon up remembrance of things past/ I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought/ And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste…"_  
  
He doesn’t stop, even though Rose throws herself on her bed and covers her head with her pink duvet to drown out the nonsense.  
  
 _"Then can I grieve at grievances foregone/ and heavily from woe to woe tell o’er/ The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan/ which I new pay as if not paid before /But if the while I think on thee, dear friend/ all losses are restor’d and sorrows end…."_  
  
*  
  
"Where have you been?"  
  
"Out," says Rose.  
  
"John waited for _two hours_. I can’t believe the nerve you’ve got, coming home three hours late! _Where have you been_?”  
  
"Dunno," says Rose. "Just out."  
  
"Come back here! _I’m still talking to you!_ ”  
  
*  
  
Rose honestly doesn’t think he’s going to come back.  
  
"What are you doing here?"  
  
"Helping you with your homework," he says. "Where is it, then? Take it out."  
  
"It’s Friday," Rose says, glaring at him.  
  
"Oh, do tell," he says sarcastically. "It’s 5pm. You’re late. Are we done stating the obvious?"  
  
Rose sighs melodramatically but she grabs her textbooks, grumbling all the while, and plonks them open in front of him.  
  
He peers at the open chapter heading. “Oooh, fractions!”  
  
*  
  
The next night she comes home to find him sitting at the kitchen table, peeling satsumas and eating them section by section.  
  
"Are you here again? Haven’t you got friends?"  
  
"I’ve more friends than you can shake a stick at," he says, eyes dancing. "Want to see my addressbook? It’s thicker than the bible."  
  
Rose sneers, but she does wonder if he’s actually got one, and if he’s entered her into it. He seems like the type, she thinks. Keeping track of everyone he meets, butting into their lives, trying to fix them. Rose doesn’t need fixing.  
  
*  
  
No one has ever out-stubborned Rose before. She’s a champion at making up her mind on a matter and steadfastly adhering to it. Forever.  
  
But the Doctor, he’s not a quitter, either. His resolve is made of steel, he never gives up. He’s decided that Rose will conquer her maths homework, and so she will.  
  
"What are you so angry about? It’s just numbers. Numbers are the easiest thing in the world - they’re numbers. They don’t change, they don’t defy logic. They follow the rules. If more people were like numbers, well… the world would be a boring place. That’s not the point. The point is, _numbers_!”  
  
He makes her go over the questions until her eyes want to fall out of their sockets. Not just the ones in the chapter she’s going to be tested on, but the ones in the next chapter as well. Rose wants to scream, but he’s got a will of iron, the Doctor, and at some point she realises it’ll be faster to just give in and do the bloody work until he’s satisfied.  
  
Rose does well on her math test, going from a surefire fail to a decent passing grade. It’s not top of the class but it’s _good_ , it’s better than she’s done all year. She’s exhilarated and tacks the paper to the fridge with a pineapple magnet and waits for Jackie to notice. Her mum takes one look at it and tells Rose not to put on airs and graces just because she’s managed one B minus. They’re about to have a row, because Rose is so hurt, but then Jackie says her dad would’ve been proud and now both of them want to see Rose to do better and better or _else_.  
  
There’s something scary about the threat - not because it’s a threat, really - _but because it’s an expectation, innit?_ She can’t really remember a time when Mum had expectations.  
  
Rose waits the three days until it’s Tuesday again, on tenterhooks. The Doctor isn’t remotely surprised by the grade. He says, “You studied hard. That’s the secret, Rose Tyler. You can be the smartest person in the world and fail at everything, if you never try.”  
  
"Did you ever fail?" she asks. Because he is the smartest person in her world, and she can’t imagine such a thing.  
  
"Sometimes what I thought were failures were actually successes," he replies enigmatically. "It depends on who’s holding the scorecards."  
  
"I got bronze once in gymnastics," she tells him in solemn agreement. "I would’ve bagged silver but the judges were biased."  
  
He gives her a startled look and then laughs. It unnerves her. Not his laughter - but how it makes her feel. Rose pushes the sensation away, coughs, and gives him her best scowl, pretending to be annoyed. He grins and buys her an ice cream as a reward.  
  
"Academic success isn’t everything," he says, slurping a banana popsicle. "But it can be an unsurpassable barrier if you don’t have a reasonable amount of it. That’s life."  
  
The next day, she gets a B plus on her science homework, and two weeks after that, she does it, that unimaginable thing. An A+, on her english essay. Her teacher gives back the paper with a strange, re-evaluating look, like he’s never actually seen her before. He says, “Good job, Tyler.”  
  
She feels it then, the truth of the Doctor’s words. The barrier is crumbling. Rose is breaking it down, brick by brick, page by page, one algebra problem at a time. There’s even enjoyment in it, in learning, in accruing knowledge. She didn’t know there was so much to learn, and she loves it when the Doctor goes on a tangent during their sessions.  
  
He tells her about things no one else in her life knows, difficult things, wonderful things. Philosophy, History, Marine Biology. Human achievements and discoveries, made by people who came before them… people just like them. Ordinary people. Rose is ordinary, but now she knows: she can be wonderful, too. The Doctor has taught her that, and it’s the best thing that has ever happened to her.  
  
Her friends Mickey and Shareen join them, at Rose’s urging. Just once for Shareen, who cannot be motivated; and around three times for Mickey, each occasion more reluctantly until he stops dropping by.  
  
"I’m gonna be a mechanic," he says gruffly when Rose questions him as to why he hasn’t come around for tutoring anymore. "Don’t need a tutor for that."  
  
He’s said this before - the bit about being a mechanic, but never with such vehemence. Rose nods, and shrugs. Inside she feels a bit funny, a bit strange: she doesn’t know it, not quite yet, not in a real sense - but this is where their paths split, her and Mickey.  
  
"Come ‘round anyway," Rose says encouragingly. "The Doctor likes you."  
  
Mickey scowls. It’s a lie - the Doctor is completely indifferent. But Mickey agrees, and brings his playstation over, steadfastly refusing to do any sort of revision whatsoever.  
  
"I’m going to take my A levels," Rose announces at dinner. The Doctor looks up from the telly and nods, unsurprised. No one else is, either. Jackie hugs her on the way to the kitchen, pressing a kiss to her forehead.  
  
Mickey misses a target in his game, and curses, out loud. He looks up, guiltily, and Rose feels it again: that twinge of loss.  
  
*  
  
Every year on Father’s Day Rose goes to the park and just… hangs out. Watches people from the swings. Sniffs the air. Buys a bottle of Lucozade, a chocolate bar, and leaves both unopened in her bag.  
  
It’s dark before she knows it, and when she turns her phone back on, it starts to ring, furiously.  
  
"Where are you?"  
  
The Doctor sounds perturbed, almost frantic.  
  
"At the park."  
  
"Stay there."  
  
He finds her crouched on the sidewalk, waiting, flicking pebbles into the road. It’s a bit misty now, and hard to see into the distance, but even from afar she can tell it’s him.  
  
"Mum okay?" Rose asks.  
  
The Doctor doesn’t reply right away. He sits on the curb beside her, resting his arms on his knees. “Yeah. Said you’d be back, but the weatherman said it would rain.”  
  
"Probably will," Rose says. Then, "He died here, you know? In the papers, it said on this road, right here. Right by this fence."  
  
"How?" He asks.  
  
"Hit and run," says Rose. "Someone just mowed him down, right there." She points at the street, now wet, even without actual rain. "All by himself. Just lay there, for hours. D’you reckon he was scared? All by himself?"  
  
The Doctor doesn’t say anything. In the light of the streetlamp his face looks hollow, sad. Like Rose feels.  
  
"I don’t even remember him, though. Honest, I don’t. I was just a baby. I know what he looks like cos’ Mum has pictures, but I don’t _remember_.”  
  
"No," he agrees. "You were too young. A baby."  
  
Jackie’s told him.  
  
"I mean, I look at the pictures, and they’re just pictures. I don’t _remember_. It’s just a face in a picture. It’s wrong, isn’t it? That my dad is just pictures and… this.”  
  
Rose wraps her arms around her knees. The Doctor doesn’t hug her, not exactly, but he shifts closer, so that their shoulders and arms touch. He’s warm.  
  
*  
  
The weeks turn into months, and months into semesters. Rose is doing well and her teachers marvel at the change in a student they once considered a hopeless case. She doesn’t need a tutor anymore, but the Doctor still comes by every Tuesday and Friday for supper and telly and pub quizzes.  
  
He doesn’t seem like a person sometimes, more like a cartoon character. He always wears the same thing, in slightly different shades of brown, the same-different striped suit and cream trainers. And he’s so happy, all the time, always smiling fit to burst, always so pleased to see her. She doesn’t know any other adults like him.  
  
Sometimes they get in trouble together, and those are Rose’s favourite times.  
  
"It’s my birthday next week."  
  
"I know."  
  
"What day is it, then?"  
  
"The 7th."  
  
"What day of the week?"  
  
"Friday."  
  
"What year was I born in?"  
  
"1988."  
  
"Alright," Rose says, satisfied.  
  
"Well done," he says, patting her on the head. "Hang on. I have just the thing for this." He rummages in his drawer and waggles his fingers inside it and grins. Fast as lightning, he’s stuck something onto the centre of her forehead, something small and sticky.  
  
"Oi!" She runs to the window and looks at her reflection in the glass. A gold star.  
  
"I stick it on the papers I grade, for the truly excellent students," he tells her, and for some reason that makes her feel really shy. "Only for the best of the best."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
"Aaaaand," he says, drawling out the vowel dramatically like a drumroll, "because you have done so well, I’ve got a treat for you. We’re going on a field trip!"  
  
"Where?" She’s excited, despite herself.  
  
"It’s a surprise. Wear something comfortable. Something you can sleep in, but not pajamas. Pajamas are not allowed."  
  
Her eyebrows lift at this. He laughs and tells her to get a move on before she misses her curfew.  
  
*  
  
Rose follows the backpacks of the two students in front of her into the lecture hall, feeling conspicuous and self-conscious. It’s as though she is wearing a big sign that reads INTRUDER on her head. She’s never stepped foot into the University before. She never thought she ever would, but now - with a start, she realises - _In a couple of years, I’ll be here, everyday._  
  
It’s a scary thought. This is a whole new world.  
  
The room is brightly lit and the seats fill up quickly, almost to the brim. The Doctor is a popular lecturer, even though he’s not quite a professor yet. He’s a good public speaker, a man who revels in sharing and exchanging knowledge. A man whose incurable curiousity ignites an answering passion in others.  
  
The topic of the lecture is a complicated physics theory that flies over Rose’s head, but she doesn’t mind. She just listens to the cadence of the Doctor’s voice and observes the other students. Everyone is captivated. The feeling in her chest is pride.  
  
As soon as the lecture is over, there’s a mad rush from nearly half the attendants towards the podium; everyone with questions and comments and brandishing notes that need clarification and so on. It’s quite intimidating, but the Doctor handles it with grace and easy grins.  
  
When finally, nearly an hour later, the melee dies down, Rose heads slowly towards him. His eyes light up when he sees her, the pleasure obvious.  
  
"Rose Tyler! In my particles theory lecture!"  
  
"Alley oop," she says, throwing a lolly at him.  
  
He catches it with one hand and unwraps it, popping the red sweet into his mouth. “Ta. I’m nearly out of saliva, talking that much.”  
  
"I’ve water, too, in my bag if you want."  
  
"You’re brilliant, you are."  
  
The girls still lingering around the podium look at Rose, their gazes assessing. As they shuffle away, sensing that the Doctor is done with answering questions for the day, Rose overhears one asking the other- “Who’s that? His little sister?”- but the Doctor doesn’t notice at all.  
  
"Ready for our field trip?"  
  
*  
  
"Museum sleepover! Brilliant, eh?"  
  
The Doctor looks at her expectantly. Rose shuffles her feet, looking at the line of children and guardians outside the entrance to the British Museum.  
  
"Well? What do you think?"  
  
He seems so proud of the idea, Rose doesn’t want to dash his hopes. But - “Er… is there, you know, a limit to this sort of thing?”  
  
"One attendee, one guardian. I have our tickets in my pocket."  
  
"I meant _age limit_ ,” Rose clarifies, hands on her hips. “Something tells me I’m a bit too old.”  
  
"Nonsense," he replies. "16 and under. Technically, you’re still 16 until 10pm tomorrow."  
  
"Right," says Rose. "Hope we can get in on a technicality."  
  
They do, of course, despite the unamused looks being shot at them by the other parents and the museum event staff, and once inside - Rose hasn’t been to the British Museum in years, not since she was 9 years old - she can’t help but feel a little bit excited. The Doctor is so enthusiastic, and Rose always finds herself getting caught up in his momentum.  
  
It’s not long before they leave the group and sneak off into forbidden areas of the Museum that are only open during regular daytime hours. Rose giggles at the stories the Doctor tells her about various exhibits and they enjoy a truly hilarious romp through a room full of roman sculpture - the Doctor insisting that one of the statues of the goddess Fortuna bears a striking resemblance to Rose herself, but it’s too dark to tell if he’s just pulling her leg or what.  
  
They decide to rest for a bit in a hall full of architectural wonders and Rose complains about being hungry. He tosses her a banana and winks. “Always bring a banana to a party, Rose. Bananas are good.”  
  
"This isn’t a party," Rose says, peeling the fruit and devouring it. "It’s just an excuse for you to run amok in a big nerdy playground for one night. You’re just using me to fulfil your wicked fantasies."  
  
"Oh-so-grateful, you are," he retorts without heat. He says, "Here, catch this!" and without any further warning, tosses something hefty wrapped in blue paper and tied up with twine at her.  
  
Rose rips open the present, eagerly. It’s a leather-bound notebook, soft and sturdy to the touch. It’s thick and heavy, the creamy pages lined and pristine. The book smells like the Doctor, somehow. Rose runs her thumb across the spine as the Doctor settles down beside her on the floor.  
  
"Thank you." She leans over and he opens his arms, ready for the hug. He’s warm.  
  
"Oi! You two! What are you doing!?"  
  
"Oh, cripes," mutters the Doctor, pulling away to look over his shoulder. A security guard wielding a flashlight encroaches on them, a scowl written neatly on his face. He puts on his charming voice, the one where he over-enunciates every word, the voice that shouldn’t work but somehow always does. "Oh, Hello There! Is Something Wrong?"  
  
"You two here for the sleepover?"  
  
"Yep!"  
  
"She’s a bit old for this thingamabob, isn’t she?"  
  
"She’s sixteen," the Doctor assures him. "Well within the age limitations."  
  
"You wanna check my ID?" Rose offers, perhaps more belligerently than strictly necessary. The Doctor raises his eyebrow at her, a silent message to _ease it on the attitude._  
  
"Sir, are you her guardian?"  
  
"I’m her companion for the night."  
  
"When you say companion," the guard says, looking sternly at the Doctor, "Is this a sexual relationship?"  
  
"No!" cries the Doctor, eyes bulging.  
  
"He’s my tutor!" Rose says, rolling her eyes.  
  
Once the guard is satisfied they aren’t up to anything _unseemly_ \- the Doctor chokes on the phrase and his eyes bulge again, which is rather funny, really - they’re allowed to return to the party of overexcited children and their parents.  
  
They fall asleep in their sleeping bags, facing one another, whispering jokes until an irate mum tells them to stuff it and somehow their hands end up clasped together, all night. It is, hands down, the best birthday Rose has ever had.  
  
*  
  
One night, in the middle of winter, the Doctor doesn’t come over. Rose calls him on his mobile but he doesn’t pick up. She spends the evening fighting back a weird feeling in her gut - _Something’s wrong,_ it keeps screaming at her, _Something is wrong with the Doctor._  
  
Following her instincts, Rose heads over to the Uni campus after school the next day and gets terribly lost. It’s not until it gets dark that she finally manages to ask for directions to the relocated Physics faculty. A kind department secretary takes her to the Doctor’s shared office.  
  
Rose knocks on the door. It opens upon impact, swinging slowly open with a devastating creak. The Doctor is sitting alone at a desk, his gaze distant and unfocused.  
  
There’s an envelope on the table. It’s been torn open, and a piece of newspaper spills out of it. The headline is visible from where Rose stands. Her breath is torn out of her chest by an invisible force. The Doctor’s hand hovers over it, as if to shove it away, to hide it from view, but he stalls instead.  
  
There is a long, long, silence.  
  
The Doctor finally opens a drawer and pushes the clipping away, but not before Rose catches a glimpse of the date. Ten years ago, today.  
  
"No one left, you see," he says offhandedly. "Just me, myself and I."  
  
There’s a leaden feeling to the air. She’s never seen the Doctor look so lonely before. She’s never seen him sad. She didn’t know he was capable of it until this very moment.  
  
"There’s me," she says, and takes his hand. "I’m here."  
  
He squeezes her hand before letting go. Her fingers tingle, and there’s a feeling like lightning in her stomach.  
  
"Can I stay?" Rose asks.  
  
"Of course you can." He closes his eyes.  
  
Slowly, Rose moves to the bookcase by the window, where tatty books lay cover to cover along the shelves. She lifts one hardbound volume from the middle shelf and it falls open in her hands to a well-read page. She reads aloud, quietly, borrowing someone else’s words to fill in what she can’t vocalize herself.  
  
 _“A human being is a part of the whole called by us universe, a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feeling as something separated from the rest, a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures…”_  
  
*  
  
That tingle starts there, the night Rose discovers that the Doctor is alone in the world. It spreads and grows and grows and grows. It gets so big, sometimes, that Rose’s heart starts thudding and her cheeks go pink and she can’t think of anything but his fingers, interlocked with her own.  
  
She’s guilty of it all - of overly wide smiles and giddy laughter and lingering gazes when she thinks he’s not looking. Everything lasts just a little bit too long when he’s around and Rose feels taut and high-strung and sometimes desperate with the need to tone him down, somehow. He’s so loud, so vibrant, even when he’s quiet or just deep in thought.  
  
"You always ask the right questions, Rose," he says to her one afternoon when they’re taking a break from calculus revision to help Olga from next door find a missing cat. His smile is fond and warm. "I really like that about you."  
  
She’s high on that praise for a straight week.  
  
*  
  
She does it, just once, because it’s embarrassing and it’s just something she’s seen in the movies. While her friends chat and tease and throw chips at each other, Rose writes in the margin of her notebook, _Rose Tyler-Smith._  
  
It looks weird and makes her feel odd, like a imposter. She starts to cross out the hyphen, is scribbling out _Tyler_ when Shareen bends between their heads to check out what she’s doing and sees everything. Suddenly everyone knows and everyone’s teasing Rose to death and heckling Mickey about it. Rose wants to kill Shareen, and she can’t look Mickey in the eye, because Mickey doesn’t find it funny, either.  
  
The next day, he’s asked Trisha Delany to be his girlfriend.  
  
*  
  
It’s the beginning of the end, in more ways than one. Between A Levels and preparing for University entrance requirements, Rose is busier than ever in her final year of secondary. She sees less and less of her friends and more and more of her books. The Doctor himself is close to completing his thesis, and meetings between them becomes scarce. They make do with phone calls and emails, and the feeling of missing something important builds up inside Rose until it becomes unbearable.  
  
She shows up at his apartment, sleep-deprived and exhausted, no different from his own state. They’re both too tired to talk and Rose is almost incoherent when she tries to explain, but the Doctor understands. She just needs to be around him. The Doctor lets her stay the night, sleeps on the sofa while she takes his bed, and drives her home in the morning.  
  
"She’s just a kid," Jackie says, after Rose has gone to school and she and the Doctor are sitting together at the kitchen table, untouched mugs of tea between them.  
  
"I know," he says back.  
  
*  
  
"I can’t make it on Friday night," he’s saying, his eyes focused on his paperwork. "Got plans."  
  
"What plans?" Rose demands.  
  
"University event," the Doctor says dismissively. "Scholars and moneybags. Need funding for my research paper. Unavoidable."  
  
"Can I come?"  
  
"You’d be bored."  
  
 _No,_ she thinks. _I wouldn’t be. I’m never bored with you._ But putting it into words, saying it… for the first time, the very first time, Rose realises the truth: It’s not allowed.  
  
"Anyway, I’ve got a date for it already," he says, finally lifting his eyes to meet her gaze. He smiles brightly, as happy as a clam. "Reinette’s lovely, you’d like her. I’d like you to meet her soon."  
  
*  
  
From her seat in the window of the coffee shop, Rose sees them.  
  
They’re standing very close to one another. The Doctor’s leaning down to whisper something in her ear. Pain stabs through Rose, like a spreading wound. She knows what that feels like: the smell of him, the warmth, the feel of his breath against her skin. She knows and now Reinette knows, and there’s nothing she can do about it.  
  
They hug, Reinette’s arms lingering around the Doctor’s shoulders for a beat too long, and part ways. The Doctor comes into the café and quickly spots Rose sitting in the corner, staring at her coffee cup.  
  
"Hey," he says, touching her elbow with the hand he just used to touch Reinette’s hair. Rose recoils, a little, before she knows she’s doing it. The Doctor’s expression is puzzled, concerned. "You okay?"  
  
"I’m fine," Rose replies. "Was that your girlfriend?"  
  
For a moment, a look of discomfort flashes over the Doctor’s face, but it’s so brief it’s gone before Rose knows it.  
  
"You don’t like her." The observation is stated quietly, factually. Almost without emotion. There’s a boundary between her and the Doctor, one they’ve been tip-toeing for years, and finally it’s become clear. It is self-imposed.  
  
"I don’t not like her," Rose says slowly, which is basically as far from the truth as is possible. "I just don’t know her well."  
  
She hates Reinette. Hates her with an all consuming passion that eclipses supernovas and black holes and her Mum’s terrible chicken pot pie. Reinette is the blonde and busty french pot pie that has stolen the Doctor from her.  
  
"What’s the matter?"  
  
Surely he knows. Surely she’s not the only one who feels this way. She studies him, tries to read into the implacably calm expression on his dear old face. The face she loves.  
  
"I won a scholarship," she says at last.  
  
"That’s brilliant!" He breaks into an excited grin. This is the Doctor she used to know.  
  
"It’s a study abroad programme," she explains, a bit dully. "In America. New York. I’d go for a year, if I accept."  
  
Rose pulls the envelope containing the offer letter and the information packet from her bag, and slides it across the table to him. “What should I do?”  
  
"Rose," he says, pushing the papers across the table, back at her. "I can’t possibly make this decision for you."  
  
"Tell me what you would do, then."  
  
"It’s the chance of a lifetime," says the Doctor.  
  
*  
  
Rose accepts the offer.  
  
*  
  
At the airport, Jackie fusses over and kisses Rose and refuses to let her go until it’s very nearly departure time. Several other friends have come to see Rose off, including - to her surprise - Mickey.

Everyone except the Doctor.  
  
He’s late.  
  
She’s crying by the time he shows, out of breath, his daft old face outlined in panic. He envelops her in his arms, the wool of his coat scratchy against her face as she buries herself into his chest.  
  
"Love you," she manages to say, between great big sobs, and she doesn’t even care how sloppy the words sound, how ridiculous she’s being. He hugs her, harder, his grip almost painful.  
  
"It’s only a year," he says, letting her go at last.  
  
She can’t really see his expression through the tears and snot, but it’s probably a combination of embarrassment and trepidation. She’s very, very aware that she told him she loves him and he didn’t say it back.  
  
"See you, Rose," he whispers in the end.  
  
"Bye Doctor," she whispers back, and a part of her wonders if it’s as final as it sounds.  
  
*  
  
 _To be continued._  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The title of this fic comes from a poem by e.e. cummings: i carry your heart with me. Huge thanks to my friend juraffe for beta-reading and removing my rogue commas and just being wonderful in general. Also thanks to andrastesgrace for encouraging me on skype! And to all the people who sent me messages about this fic, you are wonderful! 
> 
> Warning: character illness, specifically lung cancer.

  
A postcard arrives three weeks after her departure. The Doctor posts it on his fridge with a pineapple magnet and imagines Rose exploring the city, making new friends, broadening her horizons. New York City is a good place for young people, he thinks. A place to grow.  
  
*  
  
The Doctor joins a research committee and begins training for a marathon. He publishes two articles in prestigious journals and gains somewhat of a cult following among the hip science students on campus. It’s interesting to see them adopting his style of dress and catchphrases. His colleagues shake their heads but the Doctor finds it amusing. On a windy day he finds a long striped scarf in the back of his closet and drapes it around his neck on a whim: the next day he’s started a trend.  
  
He wonders if it’s windy in New York. It must be, what with all the sky scrapers and wind tunnels. Ferocious storms have rocked the city in its semi-distant past, wind speeds reaching acceleration up to 73 mph, knocking hats off heads and sending carriages into building fronts and wreaking wide-spread havoc.  
  
Things don’t grow all that well in New York, really, he reflects. There’s too much concrete, the buildings grasp too greedily at the sky. Maybe that’s why they put a big park smack dab in the centre of it.  
  
*  
  
He understands. She’s busy, she needs time to acclimatize to a new school, to new teachers and friends and classmates. He tells himself this and doesn’t look at his phone or email or even his letterbox more than several times a day.  
  
He runs in the marathon he’s been training for, putting weeks of effort to fairly good use and finishing with better time than he’d bargained for. An esteemed researcher contacts him, expressing an interest in a paper he recently published. He takes a train out to Glasgow the same night, arriving wet and bedraggled, ready to tackle far-fetched, hopeful theoretical physics. Professor Saxon is shocked to see him, ushers him inside, sets him up in front of the fireplace until he can feel his fingers and toes again.  
  
"What on earth would possess you to trek all the way out here?"  
  
*  
  
His department head retires and the Physics faculty buzzes with excitement over seeing who will step up to hold the reins. Reinette’s father was a beloved mentor and the Doctor is sad to see him go. Jokingly someone bandies his name about as the successor; an unsubtle jibe at the date he had with Reinette last summer, but the Doctor ignores it.  
  
He does his best to avoid Gladys, the department secretary who must have been an Amazon in a previous life.  
  
"Professor Smith! I need a minute. There’s something in the department office for you-"  
  
"Sorry, Gladys, no time! Gotta get to the lab!"  
  
He throws himself into his research, fuelled by that dramatic weekend spent in Glasgow’s wilderness with someone who might possibly qualify as a Brilliant Mad Scientist and spends day and night in the lab, only stopping to teach and occasionally to sleep, perhaps eat. He’s so close to a new discovery, he can taste it.  
  
"Martha Jones, you are brilliant," the Doctor says to his other newest find.  
  
She really is. Martha is the brightest in his latest batch of undergrads, a freshman. Her undeclared major status is a rarity for someone with her intelligence and drive, and the Doctor hopes to sway her towards his own discipline. He can see her going far, envisions himself helping her along the way. She’ll be a star.  
  
He’s recruited her along with three older graduate students to assist him on an extremely promising research project. The experiments go well, encouraging him to push himself even further beyond the limits of his physical needs.  
  
In the wee hours of the morning - funny, that, how everytime he looks up from his work it seems to be morning again - he finds himself about to collapse. Martha suggests, carefully, that they take the results back to the Doctor’s flat where they can work undisturbed by others who need the university’s lab. It’s a thinly veiled attempt at getting him to rest, but he’s distracted enough to oblige her. He ignores the worried looks shared between Martha and Alonso, the devoted graduate student who has spent all week running after him.  
  
The telly is on when he comes out of the shower, his eyes smarting from the shampoo that got into them when he literally fell asleep on his feet. World News is playing in the background as Martha ruffles through his kitchen, looking for mugs. Alonso is snoring on the sofa.  
  
 _A storm of historic proportions drenched New York earlier today, dumping an entire season’s worth of rain on parts of Long Island, leading to several fatal crashes and stranding drivers on roads flooded with door-handle-high water. Unprecedented and unpredicted — the size, the extent, the scale has left a huge number of neighbourhoods without power and utilities. Flooding is a concern and citizens who are unable to contact family members in affected areas are advised to…_  
  
His mind goes blank for a moment, stomach clenching with panic. He shoves Alonso aside and dials an old, familiar number with shaking fingers.  
  
Jackie’s voice is drowsy, irritated, _loud_. “What the bloody hell! It’s 1AM!” Then she hears the Doctor’s voice, he’s not really sure what he’s saying, but she’s telling him to calm down. “Rose is fine. She’s _fine_. Her dorm isn’t anywhere near Long Island.”  
  
He apologizes and hangs up before Jackie can get another bewildered word in. Alonso blinks at him and asks, “Are you alright, Doctor?”  
  
"I’m fine, I’m always fine," he mumbles, and goes into the kitchen. He can’t stop the jittery nerves in his fingers. Maybe a cuppa would help.  
  
"Martha?"  
  
"Got the kettle on at last." She’s shaking her head at him. "When was the last time you tidied up in here? It’s like a hurricane passed through!"  
  
He barely hears what she’s saying. Something is wrong. Something is missing.  
  
"There used to be a magnet," he says, trying to keep his voice calm. "On the fridge. With a postcard."  
  
"How can you tell with this mess?"  
  
"Where did it go?" He asks again, voice rising. "Martha, did you move the magnet?"  
  
"No," says Martha, slowly. She looks at him, her expression wary. "I didn’t."  
  
"Sorry," he says, biting back the bile in his throat. His head feels like cotton wool. "Sorry, Martha. I’m not feeling very well. I think I’ll just go to bed. Thank you. Thank you for the tea."  
  
*  
  
A woman, a redhead wearing a frown and a black pantsuit, shoves a box at the Doctor when he gets to work on Monday. He’s never seen her before in his life. Gladys is nowhere to be seen.  
  
"Donna Noble, temp," she says, flipping her hair over her shoulder and crossing her arms over her chest. "This is from Gladys. Remember her? She retired last week. This was her last request. Give-Bloody-Doctor-Smith-His-Box-Of-Missing-Correspondence!"  
  
He flips through the journals and magazines and finds a stack of postcards.  
  
"They’ve been delivering all that to the old Physics building," Donna explains, rolling her eyes. "Idiots."  
  
*  
  
 _Doctor, I’ve arrived in America!_  
  
 _Doctor, I moved into my dorm today! My roommate’s from Canada, she’s lovely._  
  
 _We found a giant spider in the shower today._  
  
 _Are you getting these postcards? You never reply. Louis at the Post Office is a suspicious character, I’m going to keep my eye on him._  
  
 _I’m saving up money for a laptop. Did I tell you, I got a job? What’s your email address? I have internet in my dorm now!_  
  
*  
  
He clicks on the new message notification in his inbox.  
  
 _It’s always so hot here at night_ , Rose writes in her first email to him. _It’s weird. The days are a lot cooler._  
  
 _New York is an Urban Heat Island,_ the Doctor types back. _A metropolitan area that is significantly warmer in temperature than it’s surrounding areas due to human activities. The temperature difference usually is larger at night than during the day, and is most apparent when winds are weak. The main cause of the urban heat island effect is from the modification of land surfaces, which use materials that effectively store short-wave radiation…_  
  
He explains the phenomenon eagerly, replying to her short missive with intricate detail. As soon as he hits send he feels a sliver of doubt.  
  
Her response is immediate. _What about London?_  
  
They email back and forth all night, until Rose is kicked out of the library. The Doctor sleeps in the next morning, missing his office hours completely. Donna, still temping until they find a replacement for Gladys, is highly unamused and completely put out by the number of disappointed students she had to deal with.  
  
*  
  
The Doctor whistles a jaunty Christmas tune as he writes in his journal, outlining new and exciting ideas he’s come up with for future research projects. There’s a week left to go before the holidays begin and every where he looks there is a sense of anticipation.  
  
"You never said where you’re from," Martha comments casually from the other side of the lab one morning. She’s jotting notes in the margin of her textbook.  
  
"London, mostly," he says vaguely. "Grew up just outside the city."  
  
"What about family?"  
  
He shakes his head. Martha gives him an assessing, thoughtful look. She tilts her head. “Whatcha doing for Christmas holidays, then?”  
  
"Oh, I’ve got plans," he replies, and hopes the vagueness of _plans_ is enough to stave off the offer he knows she’s going to make.  
  
"Well, if you wanted to- if you’re not busy - you can, you know, swing round to my mum’s. She’d love to have you."  
  
"Thanks," he says, smiling. It’s a generous, caring offer. "That’s very kind of you."  
  
*  
  
 _Mum sent me a care package. She says you haven’t come around lately. Is everything alright?_  
  
He rings the doorbell, holds the basket in one hand. “Sorry to show up uninvited,” he says, embarrassed now. “I should have called first, you probably have family over, and I’m just going to be a burden-“  
  
"Don’t be so daft," says Jackie, hugging him. "You _are_ family.”  
  
She’s limping, an ankle sprain. He follows her carefully into the empty flat.  
  
"Everyone’s gone home, so make yourself comfortable."  
  
There’s an open box on the table, full of individually wrapped presents. One of them has a child’s scribble on it, the name _Rose_ carefully and crookedly written.  
  
"Haven’t had a chance to pop that over to the post," Jackie says with a sigh, settling into the sofa. "Poor love. She’ll get all her presents late this year."  
  
"I can do that for you," he offers, sitting down beside her, pointedly glancing at her ankle.  
  
"You don’t have to." But he will, in the morning, two days from now, when Royal Mail resumes its services.  
  
"She’s doing well," he remarks. "We’ve been emailing each other."  
  
"Yes. Thank you," says Jackie, over the telly. She pats his hand.  
  
He wants to ask, _for what?_  
  
"This wasn’t for her, you know," Jackie says, her eyes travelling the length of the room, floor to ceiling, door to door. "Always knew it wasn’t."  
  
*  
  
New Years comes and goes. January is bitterly cold and the Doctor finds himself bitterly suffering the effects of the flu. He hasn’t been ill in years and years. It knocks him for a loop, and he spends an entire week in bed, subsisting on crackers when he can muster up the energy to eat.  
  
A few students drop by, including Martha, but the Doctor tells them to stay away. They’ve got exams and papers and reports and getting sick is the last thing they need. He’s not fit for company anyway.  
  
He wakes from a fevered dream of drowning to the incessant buzzing of his mobile on his nightstand. It hurts to talk, but the caller is persistent. Finally, he gives in and answers.  
  
"Doctor?"  
  
Her voice sets off fireworks in his brain. Neurons shoot and miss, he’s doped up on medicine, he’s too slow, he wonders if this is a dream-  
  
"Rose," he croaks. "Rose, what’s the matter? I missed your calls, I’m sorry-"  
  
"Are you alright?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"I have the flu," he says, coughing. "Sorry. How on earth did you know? I took cold medicine, it knocked me out. God, what time is it?" He grapples for his glasses, looks at the clock on the wall and barely makes out the time. It’s very late. Or early. Doing the maths in his head, he reckons it’s past midnight in New York, it must be Sunday now, which means he’s been sick for over a week now- and then it hits him. He looks at the calendar.  
  
"Are you by yourself?" Rose asks, as he blearily scrolls through his call logs, her name registering over and over for the last half-hour. The display blurs and his eyes burn.  
  
"No," he says, the words glad on his tongue even though his mouth is painfully parched. "I’m talking to you, Rose Tyler."  
  
 _There’s me. I’m here._  
  
The call is going to be expensive, and he knows he ought to end it. But he’s selfish and a coward, and he doesn’t know when he’s going to hear Rose’s voice again.  
  
*  
  
It’s spring. London is a dreary grey mess, but hints of lushness creep in at the edges - the drizzle is warmer, the days are vaguely longer, and little leaves begin to bud on the tree that grows in front of his office.  
  
The Doctor straightens the stapler on his desk, makes sure it is perfectly aligned with the true-to-scale miniature telescope model sitting next to it. His tie feels tight around his collar, so he loosens it, keeping an eye on the clock on his computer monitor.  
  
The little box pops up followed by a ring and a _bleep bloop_ and suddenly there she is. Rose Tyler, on his screen. She’s cut her hair. The ends brush against her shoulders. Her cheeks seem less round, her face thinner.  
  
"Long time no see," he says, grinning. He can’t help himself.  
  
"Been busy, you know. I have a part-time job peddling ice cream to small children." She laughs, eyes twinkling, and shows him a Baskin-Robbins apron that’s hanging off the back of her chair. "And I’m volunteering at a women’s shelter," Rose adds, almost shyly. "I’ve only just started. I want to help."  
  
As she describes the shelter and the women and children she’s met there, he feels a surge of pride in his chest. _Kind_ , he thinks. The word defines Rose. _Kind to the core._  
  
"That’s brilliant," he says. "Good for you."  
  
"Same time, next week?" Rose asks. It’s like a weight lifts off his chest.  
  
"Yeah," he says, all in a rush. "Absolutely."  
  
*  
  
"And then I said, ‘Donna, anything that doesn’t matter has no mass!’ _Ha!_ ”  
  
On the screen, Rose snorts. “And you’re surprised she hit you?”  
  
"Oi, whose side are you on? I was just trying to make her feel better! Granted, it wasn’t my best material, but-"  
  
"Hold that thought," she interrupts, grinning. "Someone’s at the door, be back in a tic!"  
  
It’s a male voice, distinctly American sounding with its grating accent. Not a young voice, not a freshman. Someone older, confident, a bit cocky.  
  
He hears her giggle. It sounds sickeningly familiar. He’s heard that giggle, thousands of times before, but not in the last few months, and not with miles separating them.  
  
Rose’s head pops back into view, and there’s pink in her cheeks now. “Sorry,” she says, “My friend just-“  
  
"I’ll let you go," he says, forcing a smile. "You seem to have company."  
  
Her eyes widen and she’s about to deny it, he knows, but he doesn’t give her a chance. He disconnects and just sits there, for a few minutes, frustrated and angry and upset for no reason. No reason at all.  
  
*  
  
The new semester begins. Martha isn’t in his classes anymore - she’s decided, in the end, to go to medical school. His heart isn’t in teaching, and he thinks about lightening the load next year, considers applying for more research grants. It’s too early on in his career to go on a sabbatical but he feels weary, tired of the ivory tower.  
  
He takes to sitting on the roof of the Physics building on cloudy days, when it’s not raining. He doesn’t smoke, so it’s a bit awkward when there are others there, but he doesn’t care all that much.  
  
He doesn’t realise he’s been doing it so often that people notice.  
  
"Hey," Donna’s voice is different. Almost cautious. "Why don’t you come down here and we’ll talk?"  
  
The Doctor shakes his head, his mouth quirking wryly. “I’m not going to jump. I just like the view.”  
  
She’s more fond of him these days, after he pointed out to the administration staff that it simply made more sense just to hire Donna to replace Gladys instead of wasting time trying to find someone else, when Donna already knew the ins and outs.  
  
"Bad breakup?" Donna asks.  
  
The Doctor turns to look at her and for a reason he can’t pinpoint, he feels compelled to answer. It’s not quite the truth, nor is it a lie, but it doesn’t matter.  
  
"Suppose so," he says, squinting at the skyline to avoid Donna’s gaze. "She found someone else."  
  
"Me too," Donna says. "Cheating scum of the earth, mine. And on our wedding day, no less."  
  
"Sorry about that." Then he shrugs and adds, "She moved to another continent."  
  
"To get away from you?" Donna jokes. She winces, embarrassed, and adds quickly, "Sorry. Me and my big mouth."  
  
He stares at the horizon. “Sometimes I wonder.”  
  
*  
  
 _I know you’ve been busy lately, but I need to talk to you._  
  
Rose has decided to stay in New York to complete her degree.  
  
"Because of him?"  
  
The words are out before he even knows it. The delay is unbearable, he can’t take back the words, can’t delete them. There’s just Rose’s image on the screen, flickering for a second, and then her expression as she processes what he’s just said.  
  
"Him?" She echoes, her voice thin through wires and signals and the miles between them. "What are you talking about? I got a full scholarship, at my advisor’s recommendation."  
  
He doesn’t know what to say, how to respond. He should be happy, he ought to congratulate her.  
  
"Are you angry with me?" She asks, finally, her lips white from how hard she’s pressing them together. He can see that, even through the grainy screen.  
  
"No," he says, fighting the sudden urge to break everything in sight. "You do what you feel is best, Rose. For you."  
  
*  
  
"Thought I’d find you here," Donna says, pushing the door to the roof open. "What’s the matter now?"  
  
The Doctor rakes his hand through his hair. “I’m fine.”  
  
Donna makes a disbelieving noise and approaches the ledge he’s leaning against. She rests her elbows on it, props her cheek on one hand and regards him patiently.  
  
"You’re kinda tight. Around the edges." Donna points at his eyes. "Lost your temper. Never seen you do that."  
  
"I’ll go and apologize," he mutters, shame beginning to stir in his stomach. Donna’s right: he rarely gets angry, rarely loses his cool. He feels like a man on tenterhooks.  
  
"Chin up, Doc. I know what will cheer you up. Let’s pop over to the pub, get you a pint."  
  
"That’s not necessary," he says. "I’m fine, Donna. I’m perfectly fine."  
  
"Oh, please. Look at you. Heartbroken, depressed, and taking it out on innocent teaching assistants. Come on, Doctor, let’s go."  
  
He follows Donna reluctantly to the pub of her choice, a small, crowded affair not far from campus.  
  
"I mean, you’re just a skinny boy in a suit and you talk _way_ too much but some women like that. Not me, of course,” Donna makes a face, and then seems to remember she’s trying to console him. “But some women do. More than expected, really. I mean, your popularity regularly confuses me, but I suppose it’s all a matter of taste, and you’re young-ish, aren’t you, for a Professor, and you always wear those trainers - you’re like catnip for these boys and girls!”  
  
"You really know how to make a bloke feel better," he complains, but the warmth of the room and the swallows of pint in his belly and the sound of Donna’s voice, raised to be heard over the general din of the public makes the tight knot in his gut ease, slowly.  
  
He drunkenly stumbles home and sleeps on the floor. Morning brings with it a headache and the stench of rotting food. He’s forgot to pay the utility bills again.  
  
 _It’s alright,_ he tells himself, emptying the contents of his fridge. _This isn’t that bad._  
  
Spoiled meat, mouldy cheese, expired orange juice, he tosses all of it into the bin. He grimaces and removes a leftover takeaway container which has leaked sauce all the way down the side of the fridge and onto the floor.  
  
On his hands and knees, the Doctor scrubs viciously at the tile. Something catches his eye under the corner of the fridge and he reaches for it. His fingers close over cold plastic. A dusty pineapple magnet.  
  
He carefully runs his hand under the fridge again. He’s found it after all this time. Rose’s first postcard.  
  
 _Hello, Doctor!_  
  
 _Here I am, in New York City!_  
  
 _I wish you were here. I wish you could explore the city with me. I’ve made so many friends, I wish you could meet them all._  
  
*  
  
The year has passed in a blur, and when the Doctor opens his window one morning, it’s December again. He checks his email every morning, replies in the evening. It’s a routine they’ve fallen into, him and Rose. They video chat less frequently now, once every two or three weeks. He watches her carefully each time, cataloguing all the minute differences and little changes he can discern via a screen.  
  
The Doctor is going to an academic conference and this year it is being held in Long Island. Rose’s face lights up when she hears this, and for a split second, she looks sixteen again. Twenty minutes later he’s booked a hotel room six blocks from her dorm and grins as Rose launches into an excited list of things and places she’s going to show him when he arrives.  
  
He counts down the days until he can see her again, in the flesh. There’s a bounce in his step that Donna teases him about but he doesn’t mind.  
  
The airport is jam-packed, which is no surprise with barely ten days left to Christmas. But he spots her almost immediately - that golden head of hair, the big brown eyes, the beaming sunshine smile. His pink and yellow girl.  
  
There’s a surreal quality to the moment, it feels like a dream. He wants to drop his carry-on and run to her side, like an idiot in a film. But she’s not alone, and he doesn’t.  
  
"Hi, I’m Jack Harkness," the man standing beside her says, his smile too wide, too white. "Nice to meet you, Doctor."  
  
The Doctor does not care for Jack.  
  
Jack comes from money, a helluva lot of it. It’s almost obscene. Rose invites him to the Christmas party Jack is hosting at a fancy hotel penthouse. He feels out of place, a fish out of water. He’s an odd academic, a Physics professor; when he’s older, he’ll be a lovable eccentric. People will wave at him and turn to their friends and say, _Oh, poor ol’ Doctor, he’s odd but harmless. Such a loner._  
  
"You don’t like him, do you?" Rose asks quietly as they dance, her fingers hot against his neck. He’s trying, hard, not to strain against that heat, to absorb as much of it as possible.  
  
"Does it matter? You like him, that’s the important bit."  
  
"I do like him," she says. It sounds like a confession and he’d rather not hear it. "I wish you did, too. He’s been kind to me."  
  
He doesn’t doubt it. Jack probably took one look at Rose in all her naive, nineteen-year-old glory and gave her as much _kind_ as a man can muster up.  
  
"And he’s fun," she adds. "He’s got a great sense of humour. He knows all these great jokes-" Rose pauses, momentarily distracted by the memory of one of those great jokes, probably. Then she shakes her head. "Anyway. He’s really great. You should give him a chance."  
  
He’s flabbergasted by this, and also more than a little irritated. It feels like… he’s not sure, but it feels like Rose is asking him to give her his approval. Like he’s her father, or brother, or some other familial male figure, when he’s none of those things. He’s not sure what his place in her life is, not anymore, but he definitely isn’t her father.  
  
"I’d have been lost without Jack," Rose says, rubbing salt into the wound.  
  
He tries to ignore the stabbing displeasure in his gut at the sight of Rose and Jack together. The night seems interminable, the party excruciating. He drinks far too many flutes of champagne, until he can’t bear it anymore and decides to leave.  
  
"M’ going," he says to Rose, his voice slightly slurred.  
  
"Going where?"  
  
 _As far from here as possible._ “Hotel.”  
  
Rose looks disappointed, which soothes his agitated nerves briefly. But over her shoulder, he can see Jack looking smug, and the way he looks at Rose is not the way any man ought to look at Rose.  
  
"See you, see you tomorrow," he stutters, reaching up and cupping his hand around her head. He presses a clumsy kiss to her temple.  
  
She leans into him, just a little bit, prolonging the contact of his lips against her forehead. He pulls away and ruffles her curls. “Goodnight Rose. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”  
  
"Goodnight," says Rose. He can feel her gaze on his back as he leaves.  
  
"Goodnight pretty boy," Jack calls out after him, and that’s the thing that does it. The straw that breaks the camel’s back.  
  
He’s halfway out the door but the taunt is an invisible line and he’s caught like a fish. Jack’s sneer yanks him back, drags him across the room with his fist clenched and his arm pulled back. For the first time in his life, he resorts to violence. For the first time in his life, he doesn’t speak. He just punches that idiot in his stupid American face and stands over him, breathing hard and heavy. There’s silence in the club and a roaring in his ears.  
  
Rose is staring at him in amazement. There’s something else, too, some other nameless emotion in her gaze he’s scared to think too deeply about. It’s the start of something, a shift in the current, a realignment of their lives. He’s been avoiding it for as long as he can but it’s happened now and there’s no going back.  
  
Then she’s on her knees on the floor next to Jack, holding his hand, asking him if he’s alright. The Doctor’s own hand burns like it’s on fire but is somehow numb at the same time. He shakes it, gritting his teeth against the pain, and leaves the party even though he can hear Rose calling out his name.  
  
*  
  
The Doctor wakes up on Boxing Day with a pounding headache and a swollen hand. He feels like putting it through the wall. He’s afraid to check his messages.  
  
There’s a knock at the door. It’s Rose, and she’s brought coffee.  
  
"Sorry," he says, rubbing his face. "I’m so sorry. I drank too much. It’s not an excuse. I’m sorry."  
  
"You look it," she agrees, and smirks. "Drink this. I’m still taking you to Central Park, even if your head hurts."  
  
Central Park is far too tourist-y for the Doctor’s tastes, but he enjoys walking through it with Rose. He doesn’t have gloves, so he keeps his left hand in his pocket and Rose holds his right hand in her mitten-clad one.  
  
It snows at night, and New York looks like something out of a postcard. Rose takes him to her favourite café and they sit by a window watching the snowflakes fall with hot chocolate warming their hands. He tries not to think about the last time they met in a coffee shop.  
  
Rose gives him his Christmas present - a new tie, a silk tie, it’s blue and has woven swirls in it. He offers up his own present for her: a bracelet, silver, with little jangley charms - a tiny book, a tiny pen, a little cat, and a small heart.  
  
"A matching set," she says, giving him that Rose Tyler smile. The one that could melt suns.  
  
He slipped his own present in last year with Jackie’s box of gifts - unsigned. A silver locket. Rose pulls it out from under her jumper, carefully fingering the chain. From the look on her face, he knows she knew all along who it came from.  
  
"Never said thank you, did I? Thank you."  
  
She gets up to hug him, her arms tight around his neck. He’d forgotten what this felt like. He tries to memorize it.  
  
*  
  
The view from Brooklyn Bridge is breathtaking.  
  
"You love it here," he says, his eyes on her.  
  
Rose nods, gazing out over the cold water. “I do. I miss London, and mum,” she pauses, leans against the railing, “-and you, Doctor. I miss you both, all the time. But I really love this city.”  
  
His chest aches again, a visceral pang that seems to permeate his whole body. The East River ripples below them, polluted and swift, constantly changing its flow.  
  
"Jack’s having a New Year’s party," Rose says, breaking the silence that falls between them. "You could come."  
  
"Is that wise?"  
  
"Are you going to punch him again?"  
  
He cracks a small smile.  
  
*  
  
It is his last night in New York. His flight leaves at 6AM and he probably won’t sleep a wink on the plane, but nevermind. He arrives at the party venue later than expected, ten after eleven. He’ll have to apologize to Jack. He’s going to need several drinks beforehand.  
  
"I wasn’t sure you’d show," Rose says, looking relieved.  
  
"What? You thought I’d just leave without saying goodbye?" He taps her playfully on the chin. Rose crinkles her nose and smiles. One hand slips into his, as if it belongs there, the other tugs at his elbow. She pulls him towards the door.  
  
For a moment it’s like nothing has changed. The Doctor feels ageless: young and old at the same time, slipping out the door with Rose Tyler into the brisk evening. Running hand in hand for no reason, laughter bubbling out of his lightened chest. He could float. He’s barely hanging onto the skin of the earth.  
  
"Where are we going?" He’s grinning.  
  
Rose looks up at him, her cheeks pink with exertion, her eyes mischievious.  
  
"Happy New Year, Doctor."  
  
"It’s not midnight yet," he says.  
  
"It’s midnight somewhere," Rose says, and reaches for him. He senses her movement, angles towards her. Rose’s fingers are cold against his face. He is very still. She kisses him, softly, sweetly, chastely.  
  
There’s still Jack, of course, and in less than fourty-eight hours, there’ll be an entire ocean between them. Years left, all of it to endure, teeth gritted, waiting for her to come home. But still. Kissing Rose Tyler under a street lamp, in New York city, on New Year’s eve. He’s grateful for this New New Moment.  
  
They return to the party. At midnight, he watches as Jack makes his way across the room to Rose’s side. That’s alright, too.  
  
*  
  
It snows in London. The flakes hit the ground and melt into slush. February is dreary, cold, uneventful. The Doctor finds himself seeking out Donna more often than he wants to admit to. Their friendship is puzzling to others; they are such different people. But the Doctor sees a certain similarity between them that he keeps to himself - they are exuberant, loud, lonely.  
  
Bits and pieces of his relationship with Rose leak out over nightly visits to the pub. On Valentine’s Day that year, Donna meets a lovely man with a stutter and shortly becomes engaged to him. She asks the Doctor to be her man of honour. He promises not to cry at the wedding.  
  
In March, Rose rings him in the middle of the afternoon. He doesn’t receive the call, it comes in the middle of a lecture. He rings her back afterwards, expecting to hear good news about the essay competition she entered in last month.  
  
Instead, she asks him to visit Jackie after his lectures are done. He hasn’t seen Jackie since Christmas, and the fact fills him with shame.  
  
Her voice trembles. “Mum’s going to have surgery. The Doctors found something. In her lungs.”  
  
Everything inside him runs cold.  
  
*  
  
Rose flies back to London, arriving the morning of Jackie’s operation. Things seem to happen in a blur of activity, surgeons and nurses stream back and forth, occasionally stopping to speak to Rose. More often than not, she and the Doctor are ignored, left to their task of waiting. Waiting, and waiting, and more waiting.  
  
Rose is allowed to see her afterwards, and by some miraculous chance she’s awake. Mum is covered in wires, attached to tubes, and beeping sounds fill the air. The room is dark. Everything feels like nightmare and it won’t end. She’s a little girl again and her mummy is sick and there’s nothing she can do.  
  
"You’re all I have, Mum. Don’t go."  
  
"Don’t be silly, sweetheart." Jackie’s hand passes softly across Rose’s cheek. "I’m not leaving you."  
  
Rose slips back into the hallway and sees the Doctor, slumped in a chair, his hands tightly laced together. He straightens when he spots Rose. There are dark circles under his eyes.  
  
"She’s awake," Rose says, standing before him, a careful distance between them.  
  
"That’s good," he sighs. "That’s very good."  
  
"She’s in pain."  
  
"I’m sorry, Rose."  
  
"S’alright," she says, voice trembling. "She’s alive. They gave her morphine. She’s gonna sleep, and they’ll keep monitoring her, and make sure the cancer doesn’t come back, and-"  
  
The Doctor reaches out, takes her hand. His palm is warm, steady, and in the touch of his fingertips to her palm Rose can faintly feel his pulse. It seems to sync with her own, reinforcing her, adding strength.  
  
"Rose," the Doctor says, and she begins to cry.  
  
*  
  
Jackie’s recovery is full of stumbling blocks, but she improves slowly and steadily. It’s frightening to see a woman once so hale reduced to a waif in a hospital bed. But she’s alive. There’s still the chemo, and the chance of relapse, but that’s something to worry about in the future.  
  
Her personality is anything but dampened by her illness. Jackie is a tyrant on her sickbed throne and thoroughly enjoys being pampered and catered to. The Doctor teases her and cracks jokes but always gives in to her demands. The look of terror in Rose’s eyes recedes a little bit more each day.  
  
The night before Jackie is due to be released from hospital, the Doctor sits with her and peels satsumas for them both. It’s a nostalgic feeling, a little bit déjà vu. The telly’s on. Jackie sighs and looks over at him.  
  
"You’ve lost a lot of weight," she says matter-of-factly.  
  
"So’ve you," he says mildly back.  
  
"Well, I’m sick, sweetheart. What’s your excuse? Have you eaten anything today besides that satsuma?"  
  
The Doctor thinks back, tries to remember the last time he ate. A croissant in the morning with his coffee.  
  
"Nothing’s changed since Christmas," Jackie says. It’s not quite a question. He looks at the telly to avoid her gaze. This is familiar too.  
  
"No," he says. "Nothing’s changed since Christmas."  
  
"Could it?"  
  
He looks sharply at her. “Jackie.”  
  
"John." There’s a note of something almost like scolding in her voice that throws him. No one has scolded him in years. "I could be on my deathbed."  
  
"Jackie!"  
  
"Oh, don’t be a twit. I’m not blind, you know. And I’m sorry. I didn’t realise."  
  
"Didn’t realise what?"  
  
"That _nothing_ has changed.” Jackie smiles suddenly. “Hello, sweetheart. What did the doctors say?”  
  
"Everything is fine, Mum. You’ll be fine. Cousin Mo rang, her train arrives in the morning. I’ll go pick her up."  
  
"Can you bring me a glass of water, sweetheart? I’m parched." Jackie turns back to the Doctor after Rose leaves the room once more. "Listen to me. Life is short. You’re in love with my daughter, and as far as I can tell, she returns the sentiment. Do something about it."  
  
*  
  
Visiting hours end. They’re waiting in the hallway outside Jackie’s hospital room, neither of them ready to leave just yet. Rose’s mobile rings. She covers her phone with her hand, trying to block the caller ID from view. It’s Jack, he knows. She has a guilty look on her face, but it’s mixed with something else. Fear.  
  
A lightning bolt of sick twists inside his belly, knocks his breath short.  
  
"Answer him," he says, putting a fascimile of a smile on his face, hoping it doesn’t look pained. "He’s probably worried. I’ll be right here."  
  
Rose nods and jerkily stands, moving twenty paces down the hall to have her conversation.  
  
The Doctor closes his eyes. _I’ve well and truly mucked this up, haven’t I?_  
  
"Doctor?" She’s back, far sooner than he thought she would be. "You alright?"  
  
"Sorry. Just tired." He tries another smile. "You must be knackered too. Shall we?"  
  
He’ll never abandon her, never forget her. She’ll keep growing up, maybe grow out of him. And while the thought is painful to even contemplate, it’s the truth. But she will never lose him, no matter how far she goes and no matter many Jacks she finds and dates.  
  
"I’ll pick you up in the morning," he says, after dropping her back at the estate. "Get some sleep," he says, even though he knows he won’t.  
  
Rose tilts her head and presses her soft cheek into his hand. She pulls away, reluctantly. “Love you,” she whispers, closing the door before he has a chance to respond.  
  
*  
  
Donna’s waiting for him at the pub.  
  
"Rose still here?"  
  
"She leaves day after tomorrow. Probably packing right now."  
  
A cousin is coming to stay with Jackie until summer, despite Rose’s protests to the contrary. Jackie insisted. She refuses to let Rose take an extended leave from school, even though it would be perfectly alright for Rose to take a semester off.  
  
"You gonna just let her go?"  
  
He looks away. “What am I supposed to do? Tie her down? Lock her up?”  
  
"Ask her to stay."  
  
"I can’t do that. She has to finish school. She loves New York. She might want to stay there. After. For good."  
  
"I’ve got to ask," Donna says with a sigh. "Does she… actually know how you feel?"  
  
 _She must,_ he thinks desperately. _She must._ How could she not know? It’s not something that needs saying, is it? His love, she must feel it, even if she doesn’t return it anymore.  
  
He says, “I’ve always thought I was terribly obvious about it. Jackie even called me on it. Well within her rights, of course, I was twenty-six, a grown man and infatuated with her underage teenage daughter.”  
  
Donna looks like she wants to strangle him. “Then tell her before it’s too late. You have to give her the option to choose.”  
  
"I won’t make her choose. Not between her future and…" He rubs his face with a hand. "It wouldn’t be fair."  
  
A twisted part of him, that dark part deep down, the part that keeps him awake at night with nightmares and memories of his long lost family, the part that reminds him he’s alone in the world - that part of him wonders if he even stands a chance.  
  
Donna looks at him, with pity. “Why don’t you just try? Just try telling her.”  
  
"It’s not that simple."  
  
"Yes it is," Donna says, with such vehemence he withdraws, slightly. "You’ve spent the last two years pining for her. And don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing on Tuesday afternoons when you lock yourself into your office. We have a shared vent, I can hear you two chatting. Oh, don’t look at me like that!"  
  
"Donna-"  
  
"What are you so scared of?" She demands. "Yeah, I get that there’s an age difference, and she lives on another continent, but so what? It’s the twenty-first century."  
  
He swallows the nausea rising inside.  
  
He can’t put it into words, the unending yearning, the impossibility of it all. It’s not just the age gap, though that’s where it began. Age isn’t everything, and the measure of your soul doesn’t depend on the number of your years.  
  
He remembers the way she used to look at him, like he was a giant, like he was the entire universe. It scared him as much as he found it addictive. No one should look at another person like that, no one’s universe should be just one other person.  
  
Rose would’ve stayed in London and taken some low-paying entry level job, to stay by his side. She’d never have come to New York, never have accepted her scholarship, not if he was her universe. Eventually, he knows, reality trumps. Real life crushes. The gilding wears off, and one day Rose wakes up and realises she’s wasted her potential on a man who wasn’t worth it.  
  
"Listen, Doctor. You said she might not come back again. You love her. You want her to come back. _Tell her._ Give her a reason to come back. What have you got to lose?”  
  
Something hot and tight unfurls in his chest.  
  
*  
  
In the end, it comes down to a decision and a confession.  
  
 _What have you got to lose?_  
  
Rose is packing. Her suitcase lies open on the bed with its shocking pink duvet. Her room is as he remembers - the bed, the desk, the stuffed animals lying in a corner on the carpet. This is where he met Rose Tyler, knew Rose Tyler.  
  
"Sorry, I’m almost done," she says, her back turned to him. "Cousin Mo is going to stay in here so I’ve got to clear it out a bit."  
  
He watches her, his hands fisted in his pockets. She’s wearing his locket and bracelet around her neck and wrist. The charms jangle daintily. He takes a deep breath and opens his mouth.  
  
"There’s an unfilled teaching position at NYU," he says, at last. "They’re accepting applicants. It’s very competitive."  
  
She’s very still, so still in fact, he’s not sure she heard him. But then Rose turns, slowly, a jumper held aloft her hand. She doesn’t speak.  
  
"It’s a permanent position. Full-time. International hires would be expected to relocate."  
  
Rose’s eyes are luminous, searching. Her expression tugs at his chest. She licks her lips and says, in a tentative voice, “What are you saying?”  
  
"I sent in my application last night. I’ll hear from them soon, I hope." He shrugs. "I’m not exactly sure what they’re looking for, but my credentials are stellar. Not to brag or anything."  
  
Rose is still gripping her jumper. The Doctor closes the several steps of distance between them and takes it from her. He slips his fingers between hers. Her hand fits perfectly, as it always has.  
  
"I know you’re seeing Jack," he starts to say, but Rose corrects him instantly.  
  
"No, I’m not. I broke up with him after New Year’s. We’re still friends."  
  
He’s startled by this bit of news. Rose looks at their hands, her voice shaky but determined. “I couldn’t. Not after… it just wasn’t fair to him. I wasn’t expecting anything, though. You’ve always sent mixed signals, after all.” She looks up at him and every emotion on her face is visible: expectation, longing, traces of fear and incredulity. But when she speaks this time, her voice is steady. “What are you saying, Doctor?”  
  
 _Tell her._  
  
"I’d like to move to New York."  
  
Rose blinks, slowly. “You’ve got a life here.”  
  
"And you’ve got a life there," he counters.  
  
"What about your friends? Your career? You’ll just pick up and leave? You’re going to give up everything? "  
  
"Yes," he says.  
  
"Why?"  
  
 _I miss you._  
  
 _I miss you desperately._  
  
 _I don’t want to live apart from you. Not anymore._  
  
"You’re not here."  
  
Rose shakes her head, once, her eyes fixed on his.  
  
He tries again. “I want to spend the rest of my life by your side. If you want.”  
  
No, that’s not right either. She looks him directly in the eyes, deliberately repeats, “What are you trying to say, Doctor?”  
  
 _Life isn’t worth living without you._  
  
 _I can’t bear another second of it._  
  
"I love you," he says, at last, with understanding. "Rose Tyler, I love you."  
  
She starts to cry.  
  
"Rose. I love you. I always have."  
  
She kisses him. It’s wet and perfect.  
  
"I love you."  
  
*


End file.
